Call the Po-Po, hoe! May 29, 2012

You wanna hear about my three day weekend? Good, because I’m going to tell you. Why? Because this is my blog and you came here to read it didn’t you? Thought so. Also because you like hearing about my wanton “Fuck you and fuck that and fuck this and fuck everything” attitude (as B so eloquently put it this weekend. He was being so serious and I laughed so hard.)

 

 My neighbors are doucheholes. Inconsiderate, rude, LAZY doucheholes. B and I are pretty sure that we are the only two in our cul-de-sac that work and I’m almost positive the neighbors to the right of us are drug dealers. There are different cars in front of their house at all hours of the day and night; they just had their roof replaced; NO ONE WORKS outside the home. No one who lives there ever leaves except to go get groceries or drop the kids off at school. Neighbor dude is creepy friendly enough and at least says hi when I come home while he works shirtless in his dirtpatch of a front yard. Eek. B told me that he had it out with neighbor dude years ago because N.D. had a loud dog and B likes peace and fucking q.u.i.e.t and that dog was not peaceful or fucking q.u.i.e.t. N.D. learned quickly that B doesn’t start shit unless he has to and he got rid of that dog with a quickness. After that, he kept to himself and B kept to himself and we live in a quite peaceful existence.

 

*Cue Mariachi music*

 

Our neighbors to the left of us don’t ever leave the house, either. And they are Hispanic and there are typically 18 cars parked in front of their house at any given time which makes me laugh because they are the only Hispanics I’ve ever seen that don’t cram all of themselves into one car. HA! I kid. Anyway, this story has a point and I’ll get to it quickly at the risk of sounding raciest which, ironically enough, is where this story is going anyway. So there’s 34 of them living in this house and I’m not sure any of them work because during the summer when I come home and when I go to sleep and when I wake up, they’re sitting in their driveway downing Coronas and blasting Mariachi music, I shit you not.

 

I don’t have central air, which means that during our Spring and Summer months, I am forced to leave my windows open to allow a draft through the house, lest I roast to death in our blistering 80 degree heat (right??!) Like B, I want shit PEACEFUL AND FUCKING QUIET. I do not want to listen to Mariachi music anymore than I want to listen to Death Metal, Country, Gospel, Techno, or Justin Beiber. Everyone has different music preferences and my preference is simply to not listening to yours at anytime, let alone at 10pm.

 

B came home Saturday from a long and tedious day at work to the sounds of drunken debauchery and maracas. Fed up, we turned our banging stereo system on to none other than “rahhhrraaaahhraaahhhh” death metal (more on that in a minute), set the speakers in our front bay window and turned.that.shit.UP. Then the neighbors turned theirs up. Then we turned ours up. Then they turned theirs up some more. And then we turned ours off and called the cops 1. Because it was 10pm (we’d been playing music for almost 3 hours at that point) and 2. If we turned ours up any louder we may have broken all the windows in the house. We no sooner dialedthe first three digits of our local police station and they turned their music off and retired for the night. It could have also been B shouting out the window that he was calling the cops. But who really knows.

 

After pacing for an hour and wearing a hole in the carpet, B finally came to bed and vowed to call the police every single time they turned their music on from that day forward. We aren’t playing anymore.

 

As the natural order of things would have it, we called the police the next day. Not because of their music, but after flipping us of as we pulled into our driveway. The conversation went something like this:

 

B (walking up to their driveway after they flipped us off): Hey! What? What is all this about? Really?

Neighbor: You racist motherfucker! You don’t want to listen to my music so you turn up you “RAAARRRAHHAAAAHHAARRAAHHA” music (laugh)??? Huh? You don’t know who you’re dealing with motherfucker!

B: Yeah, ok. I gotcha, dude, but you don’t need to be harassing me as I pull into my own driveway. I don’t want to listen to your music anymore than you want to listen to mine. That was the whole point.

Neighbor: You don’t know who you dealing with, you white fucker! It’s my goddamn house and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want!

B: Great! And I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, too! Play your music, and I’ll play mine! It’s fucking disrespectful to have your music on SO loud SO late!

Neighbor: You could have just come over and asked me to turn it down!

B: I shouldn’t have to fucking ask you to be respectful!

Neighbor (stepping off his property to get up into B’s face, then stops and turns around and gets back on his sidewalk): “You don’t know who you dealing with! Come here! Come step onto my property, motherfucker!

B: You don’t want me to do that. I’m not trying to fight you.

Neighbor: I know it’s because you’re racist! You don’t want to listen to my Mariachi music! And you don’t let your wife and kids….. no, your girlfriend and HER kids, play with my granddaughter because you’re both racist! (how he knows so much about our living situation is beyond me and tit-bit unnerving)

B:….. what are you talking about?!

Neighbor: And you threatening to call the cops??! Huh? Like you did when we were having a party two weeks ago??? You’re LUCKY I wasn’t home when you called the cops the last time, you stupid white motherfucker! Leave me alone! (pounding on his mailbox) Leave me alone! Leave me alone!!

B (looking at me): ……What is he talking about?

Cue neighbor dude: What’s going on?

Me: I don’t know, man. He flipped us off as we pulled into our driveway…..

N.D.: Oh man… shit…. He’s just been drinking.

Me: REALLY.

At this point, B had started balling his fists up because neighbor kept getting closer and closer and closer to him with every word spoken and I could see that B was losing his cool. He’s very keen on “personal space” and this guy was quickly invading his. I think N.D. and some of neighbors homeboys could see it happening too, because all at once, three guys grabbed on to neighbor and started pulling him up the driveway. B started walking away, having not really resolved anything, when neighbor screamed down the driveway “I SHOULD BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF, MOTHERFUCKER!”

 

B has been through enough bad situations in his life to know that this kind of threat is not one to take lightly. Neighbor was drunk and upset and it was most likely an idle threat but we have kids. He has grandkids. We’ve also seen what happens when someone pops off at the wrong time to the wrong person. B especially. This was not a threat that we felt would be okay to downplay or play off entirely. We don’t know what kind of criminal history this guys has, nor do we know if he has any weapons inside his house or what anyone else in his house is willing to do to “avenge” this argument, but we weren’t taking any chances. I called the police.

 

The police calmed him down and we opted not to press charged THIS TIME, but we’re seriously considering moving because we don’t know what we may or may not have just started and I for one am NOT going to drive into a war zone every night I come home.

 

That said, I LOATHE moving. Ohmygod HATE.  I’ve moved 12 times in 8 years and I’m done. The thought that a cranky neighbor may have us packing our shit because he lost his shit makes me tired. And dammit all to hell if I don’t work for a homebuilder that makes homes I would NEVER live in. Not currently, anyway. We sell some really nice homes, like, NICE NICE, and I absolutely adore our floor plans, but I just don’t want to live in any of the neighbor hoods we are currently building in. B and I have a lot of requirements too and I’m pretty sure we’re looking for a Unicorn House. Right now, our requirements are:

 

1. 5 bedrooms (Master bedroom, a workout room, a video game room, and one room for each of the girls)
2. 3 car garage (We currently own 4 cars)
3. In a good neighborhood (I have kids!)
4. In a good school district (I have kids!!)
5. Preferably an inner cul-de-sac lot with ample space between lots, or a corner lot that does not sit on a busy street. (I like a lot of space and don’t want to be bunched up next to my neighbors)
6. A backyard that backs up to nothing, or something that is very very far away. (I don’t want to see into my neighbors backyard, nor do I want anyone looking into mine)
7. A room large enough to fit a pool table WITH EXTRA ROOM AROUND IT (this is self explanatory)
8. Money is an option (as opposed to ‘money is NO option!’). We really don’t want to spend more than what we’re currently paying.

 

I mean, really, is this too much to ask? Since I’m not willing to purchase anything that doesn’t fit all 8 of these requirements, I probably need to start looking, like, NOW. Right after I finish bullet proofing my front windows. Much love, kittens.

Women: You need to STOP. May 25, 2012

I remembered reading a blog post a while back from a really funny bitch and she talked about how to survive a breakup. I thought it was quite informative, enlightening and poignant and promptly discarded it as I have no plans of breaking up with B. Like, ever.

 

After the events of yesterday, which were heartbreaking (baaarrf), it seems I found myself in a predicament similar to a breakup. Why do I keep making an effort to be friends with people that really don’t want me around? I am a square peg to their round hole, it seems. Why do I put myself in the situation to be hurt? Why do I let them hurt me? Why do I keep forcing myself into a situation that is just the same as the last and hoping for different results? Because we used to be friends? Because they used to treat me better? Because I know they can be better….

 

Sounds like a domestic violence relationship, doesn’t it?

 

When shit goes down so openly I get so butthurt. OMFG. It would still rip me up a little if it was by text, or by email, but Facebook? Ugh. Then I get mad. Then B gets mad because I get mad with him and it spirals out of control until  I’m sleeping in a cold bed while he’s playing games downstairs because we lashed out at each other because anger and other equally destructive emotions get the best of me. He’s the only one I talk to. He’s really all I have. Ugh, why would I do that? For shame.

 

So I re-read that chicks post and there are some striking resemblances between FRIENDS and BOYFRIENDS that I never realized before now. I have adapted these “rules”, if you will, because obviously I can’t throw my friends shit out when they don’t actually have a drawer with underwear and a toothbrush in my dresser. But I also cannot wallow in the pain that shitty people have caused by their uncaring and thoughtless words. People are dumb. Women in specific. I really hate most all women most all the time because they (we) just don’t think before we spew hateful nasty shit and we don’t reflect or admit what horrible feelings are initiated by a seemingly innocent comment and we talk shit about each other behind each others backs and we hold grudges for centuries and THAT SHIT NEEDS TO STOP RIGHT NOW. No fucking more, ladies. This is how I plan to cope with the bullshit from THIS DAY FORWARD:

 

1. I get one day to hate myself: 

What is it about women being treacherous towards each other that somehow makes us forget what a horrible person they were to begin with? I get shit on, and shit on, and shit on, and shit on, and shit on some more, and then when I’ve finally been shit on enough I sit here and stew and wonder why they don’t like me. What’s wrong with me. What did I do wrong. Could I have driven 45 minutes to have breakfast for them? Yes. Should I have? Perhaps. Maybe if I made that effort, they’d like me more. Maybe I rant too much. I do talk about myself too much. I don’t listen to them enough. I’m too critical. I don’t see them enough. I don’t call or text first. I don’t make plans. I use my kids as an excuse too often. I shouldn’t tell them that I don’t give a flying fuck about who they are currently fucking because they’ll be fucking someone different next week because they dress like hookers and act like they’re in the 7^th grade. I kid.

 

No, wait, I might have actually said that to someone.

 

So I’ll be sad. I’ll stew. I’ll sit and think and list all the possible reasons why they hate me like that damn chubby kid in the 3rd grade no one wanted to hang out with because it meant social suicide. I will allow myself only ONE FUCKING DAY to beat myself up. At 24 hours and one minute, I will barr every self incriminating and self demeaning thought from passing through my head because logic dictates that if I HAD driven to see them for breakfast they would have continued to treat me like a redheaded stepchild. Wanna know how I know? Cause it’s happened. After 24 hours, I will force myself to remember that they never called first. They never text first. They never emailed. They planned dinners with each other and never invited me because “we figured you’d say no anyway”. They spread rumors about how I have STD’s that I don’t actually have and slept with people I never actually slept with. They planned lunches together and never invited me. They didn’t tell me when friends flew into town. They didn’t invite me to bridal showers. They didn’t invite me to bachelorette partys. They DID invite me to a wedding, however, and I drove 45 minutes with my children IN A BLIZZARD to stay for the 15 minute ceremony only, then drove 45 minutes back home with my children  IN A BLIZZARD because I had to attend a Christmas party I RSVP’d to two weeks before I was invited to the wedding. Because I am a good fucking friend. And I didn’t even get a ”did you make it home ok?” text or phone call. They invited me to hang out downtown and made me their designated driver, then assaulted me for their keys when I refused to let them drive home. They invited me to a show and we made plans to meet at a certain place at a certain time to get dinner and drinks beforehand then said “Shoot. We already made other plans with other people too. You can still come, though.”  They invited me for drinks on a work night and I drove 45 minutes out of my way and sat at a table BY MYSELF because the table they were at was full. Then we ran across the street to a bar and I sat at the end of the bar BY MYSELF. Then stood up, waved goodbye, and walked to my car BY MYSELF and drove my lonely ass 45 minutes home without so much as a “Thanks for coming!” or “Make it home safe!” because I thought by coming would mean that they would know that I was a good friend. Silly bitch.

 

So. 24 hours to pound myself into the ground for being the most worthless piece of shit friend that ever walked this earth and then it’s on to remembering how much they really were just some of the lousiest people I’ve ever hung out with. Losers.

 

2. I will cut off all communication:

 I have a bad habit of keeping shitty people’s telephone numbers. I convince myself to keep it for one of two reasons.

A. I want to know who it is if they call me.

B. I may need to eventually get ahold of them. Pfffft What a joke.

 

Ok, first of all? What is the point of keeping a telephone number so I know who’s calling me IF THEY NEVER CALL ME. I’m the dumbest smart person I know. Seriously. If I can go back 3 months and see their number in my call log not even one time AND they’re treating me badly? Done. And what would be more satisfying that getting a lonesome text and saying “Who is this?” to someone who thinks you should know who they are. That simply says, “You are so lousy that you are not even worth the space in my phone anymore.”

 

Also? If I can look back in my call history and not see one outgoing call to them in the last year then I definitely won’t be calling them anytime soon. What would I even call them for? To save me from a burning vehicle? To call and say hi? To ask them to help me move out of my apartment when it flooded at 2:30am while it was snowing? True story, they all said they were busy. I wouldn’t trust them to hold my favorite pen, let alone my life, thoughts or feelings. I DO NOT NEED THEIR NUMBER FOR ANY REASON and I will delete them immediately. Otherwise is becomes a painful reminder that something may be wrong with me and we’re well past my 24 hour grieving period.

 

Oh, and not responding to them via email or Facebook. First of all, I highly doubt they’ll even be contacting me and if they do, it’ll be to ask why I am not longer on their friends list. Do I really want to be THAT crazy bitch that waxes eloquent about how horrible they are and I slighted I feel in verbiage that makes me sounds like a pompous asshole? NO I DO NOT. The last thing I want them thinking is, “Wow, this bitch is insane. I’m GLAD she unfriended me.” No. I want them to come out on the losing end of this and spend hours thinking, “Huh, I wonder what I did wrong…” JUST LIKE I HAVE. I want this to be THEIR loss. Not mine. I want to take the high road and let them feel shitty for once.

 

3. I will distract myself.

I realized last night that I need to DO something. Physically. Get my ass out of the house and go be productive. Thinking and being alone with my thoughts can be a good thing, but only when I’m doing something good for myself because those thoughts serve no useful purpose when accompanied by crying into a pint of Haagen-Dazs. When I get home at night and I think “Who needs those people anyway? I’m WAY better than that!!” and I look around and realize I’m alone until 9:30pm when B gets home, the house is a mess, I have laundry to fold, I have no one to eat dinner with, no one to talk to, no one to drink with and no one who is going to call me and catch me up on the latest gossip? I get fuckinglonely.

 

I like reading, so I went to the library. 3 out of the 4 books I picked up are still sitting on my nightstand because I have to motivate myself to sit in bed and do nothing but get mindFULLy lost in a world different from my own. Then I get sore from sitting too long, and I can’t lay down and read cause I get dizzy then I get hungry and mindLESSly eat Starbucks ice cream and then I feel fat and gross and like I need to work out but now it’s dark outside and I’m not motivated to do that either. Ugh.

 

Gardening? I have a lot of work to do in my backyard….No. I killed a plant sitting in plain view on my kitchen table. I’ll end up failing and be really disappointed at the end of the summer that my yard still looks like shit.

 

Hmmm, cooking? No. Because B works late more often than not it seems and most of it will go to waste because he eats leftovers like an anorexic would eat a box of Krispy Kremes.

 

Baking! I’m good at baking. But its summer and I’ll heat up the house to unbearably hot levels and I don’t need those cookies and banana bread and coffee cake going to my thighs in time for bikini weather. AND THEN IT HIT ME.

 

Running.

 

I fucking love running. A runners high is the best high ever in the history of things that get you high. It sucks so hard when you start, then you start running a little longer, and it hurts a little less, then a little longer, and a little longer and longer and all of a sudden, you find yourself running because it feeeels sooooo gooooood, like you could conquer anything after sweating out every ounce of fluid in your body and once the dry heaves have passed. Seriously. I haven’t really run since I cancelled my gym membership quite a number of months ago because they are lame and the franchise owner went bankrupt and the gym was turned over to corporate and while those people train quite a bit they are NOT trained to handle customers and customer complaints. Worst customer service ever, with the exception that they refunded my payment TWICE on accident and let me keep it. Anyways, since I have a room dedicated to weights, a bench, an exercise ball and misc. other workout utensils, I didn’t need the gym and decided to purchase a treadmill instead. Let me tell you how hard it is to find a treadmill in working condition that doesn’t take up half my living room floor space and is durable enough to withstanding daily running. HARD. Many treadmills are walking treadmills, or incline treadmills, or shitty treadmills but there are few “jogging” treadmills worth buying. Additionally, finding one that doesn’t cost more than two months worth of mortgage payments? I’ve limited that treadmill pool to ZERO. I also live in a place that is either ridiculously cold or offering up some sort of ridiculous weather phenomenon like thunder-sleeting 9 out of 12 months out of the year, so running outdoors is not generally an option.

 

But it’s May. And the weather is beautiful. And I have a middle school caddy corner to my house with a track. And I was SO motivated last night that I went and bought new running clothes since mine are ratty, took them home, pulled the tags off, put them on, and ordered Chinese food. I sat my ass on the living room floor watching TV the rest of the night and promised myself to start running on Monday since I’ll be off for the holiday with no friends to bbq with.

 

I think that’s an excellent start, if I do say so myself. Running makes me feel good. Running is productive. Running is healthy. I can be alone with my thoughts and pound the pavement and use whatever is angering me as motivation to push myself just that much harder and make me that much stronger. I can. I will. And I will also not waste anymore time on mindless relationships with shitty people who want no part of me. If woman all across the nation are learning this about men, then I can learn it about women. The two are really no different. No more will I think about what is wrong with me or what I could have done different. No more will A CHICK make me feel useless or worthless. I am the kind of friend I would like to have AND I KNOW THAT. What is it you say to a woman who’s just been broken up with? “Any man would be lucky to have you as their girlfriend…”

 

Well then, any bitch would be lucky to have me as their friend. Let the friend requests flow.

I am a sour pastry. May 24, 2012

If you’re going to be a friend, BE A FUCKING FRIEND.

 

If you’re going to “include” me, then DONT EXCLUDE ME.

 

Also? Don’t publically include me when you’ve already publically excluded me. I hate feeling like “that” girl, who forces her way into a situation were she is really not wanted and is totally oblivious that everyone is talking behind her back. Because everyone can see that I’m forcing myself into a place I’m not wanted and because I’m not dumb and I know when this is happening and I look like a desperate fucking fool.

 

Case in point, Facebook this morning:

Friend M: Wishing friend T a safe flight home!

Me: Um, what?

Friend M: She was in town.

Me: I figured that part out. Why didn’t anyone tell me?

Friend M: LOL it was a surprise trip, she didn’t have any spare time we planned our hang out time right when she booked the tix I’ll let you when she is here next.

Me: Way to feel left out. Fucking Boo.

Friend M: Awww, it wasn’t intentional! Hey, friend S will be here tomorrow! Maybe she’ll have time to hang out!!

Me: Friend S, word on the street is that you’ll be here TOMORROW. Do you have any free time? I’d like to see you.

Friend S: That’s the word! Yeah, I’m kinda booked. I’ll text you though. I would love to see you guys! Maybe we can meet for lunch or something.

Friend M: I would love that! I have plans on Saturday, though.

Friend S: What about breakfast on Sunday morning?

Friend M: That works for me, I know A has her girls but I would love to see them too.

Me: Yeah, I have plans Sunday, but I’m free Monday because of the holiday.

Friend M: Breakfast monday??

Me: I could do that!

Friend S: Sure! But I won’t have a car….  but I could borrow my friends. What about 8am? I know it’s early for your days off, butI need to be back to my friends house by 10am.

Friend M: Sleep in buzz killer! LOL, that’ll work for me!

Me: So, I live the furthest away. I live 45 minutes away, and you want me to get up eariler on my day off than I would for work on a work day?  I’m not going to be good company that early. Sorry.

Friend J: What about meeee???!!?! You’re leaving me out too!

Friend M: Sillyhead! We wouldn’t have left YOU out!

Friend S: I was actually JUST going to text you about this!

Friend J: Psh, I’ll be a morning person, unlike SOMEONE….

Friend S: Yeah, it’s a shame you won’t come, A, but I understand.

Friend M: It’ll still be fun though!

Me: Great. Have fun.

 

GTFO out of here with that bullshit. I should have known something was up when those 4 went radio silent for the last week. Figures. Anyway, in case you missed it, Friend T flew in from 5 states away for a week and no one told me, then Friend S is flying in tomorrow from 3 states away and no one would have told me if Friend M had not felt the need to publically proclaim how awesome having a best friend who comes into town to see you is. I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any of those.

 

B thinks I need to cut my losses and stop forcing myself where I am not wanted. I agree. But I’m not currently making any new friends, sooooooooooo I’m fucking lonely. Behind this sour and salty exterior is a sugar filled cream puff of a girl who just wants to feel wanted like everyone else. I want to have those giggly girl converstations about shoes and marriage proposals and glitter and shit with girlfriends because B does not give a flying fuck about the $800 pair of Orange Suede Christian Louboutins I found on eBay and I sure as fuck am not talking about marriage with him since the last time I asked while I was high on vicodin and still in pain and he looked at me like an alien popped out of my chest. I may or may not have asked him to marry me. Really. I don’t know. I don’t remember. And I’m not asking him.

 

Stuff like what happened today makes me fucking curdle.  And no one wants to keep a sour fucking pastry around.

I feel like a failure May 22, 2012

 

Where is the line between keeping the peace and neglecting to fight for my children? This post is not going to be funny, or entertaining. It’s going to be the ramblings of a working mom with joint custody who is battling inside. Battling with what to do for my children. What is right. What will inflict the least amount of pain and heartbreak to two children who have already been through more than they should have at their tender age.

 

 

I am estranged from my parents. Why? Go back and read any number of posts I’ve written about them and get you up to speed. I’ve probably written ad nauseam about how I have chosen to be estranged because they are horrible shitty people I want more than anything to NOT be a part of my life. It came to light a couple months ago that my mother may or may not be moving out of state and a few weeks ago my ex-husband informed me as though I didn’t know and he was doing me some huge favor by telling me. More likely that he wanted to rub in how good he’s in with my parents. Whatever. Anyway, she’s telling everyone who gives a shit that she’s moving to New York when in reality, she MIGHT be moving. She’s in the process of selling her home (which is PAID OFF, smh) and moving her stuff in with her boyfriend while she explores the opportunities that are being presented to her. I hope she moves. Mostly because that would be one less dysfunctional family member to deal with. And her moving as far away as humanly possible from me why still staying inside the continental US means that the likelihood she’ll travel back for any reason at all is slim. Also? Because that means she won’t have to pretend to give a shit about my children anymore. She told me, when she kicked me out, that she knew she wasn’t going to see the girls anymore and she was ok with that. She said she knew what she was doing. Ouch. I understand people moving on with their lives, but when you proclaim to love two beings as much as this woman claims to love my children (pffffft), and then tell me you want to move across the country? You have a house that’s PAID FOR in a city that’s home to your boyfriend, ex-extended family (him) who will do anything to get back at his ex-wife (me) , an ex-husband who would feed you grapes while shading you with palm fronds if you asked him to, and grandchildren who truly love you more than they love their Zhu-Zhu Pets and Barbies (which is saying a LOT) and your telling me that you want to start anew in a crowded, congested, dirty ass state with dirty ass people and dirty ass air so you can complete your midlife crisis? GTFO with that bullshit.

 

 

If she moves, she can finally give up the façade that she cares and we can all just move on. I’ve said, from day one, that I did NOT want her in contact with my children because I didn’t want them to believe that she wanted a relationship with them. Because she really doesn’t. How devastating. How heartbreaking for my children. But the sooner we get there, the less distressing it will be for them. So this move cannot come fast enough, if it even really happens.

 

 

My dad will do anything to appease my mom. Evident by many situations, but most recently when he was supposed to go to my daughters 6^th birthday party, then declined the day of the party because he was *cough cough* sick. Also? My mom went out of town the weekend prior and wasn’t back yet. Go fucking  figure. He doesn’t want to see the girls if he’s not also seeing my mother at the same time. My parents are divorced and I’ve never seen someone pine so hard for an ex. Fucking yuck. After severing communication with him, guess which line of communication I inadvertently  strengthened? My dad and my ex-husbands. They are the two best friends that anyone could have (try reading that without singing it in your head like Alan from The Hangover.) I don’t want the girls around my parents + a vindictive ex who will do anything to spite me and make me angry= inviting BOTH my parents to my oldest daughters Kindergarten Graduation last night.

 

 

I knew something was up when I walked into the school and he wouldn’t even say hi to me, let alone make eye contact. He’s always up to some shady shit when he acts towards me like exes are supposed to act. He’ll try to be the buddiest buddy who ever buddied when I pick up or drop the girls off on the weekends, but when he won’t as much make eye contact with me? My stomach dropped into my lower intestine because something was about to go down. We sat down, him, our youngest between us, and me, when he said, “Scoot over, we have to save two more seats.”

 

 

Incredulously, I said “No, ‘WE’ absolutely do NOT have to save two more seats.” Sweet Mother Mary in a mojito, goddamn everything unholy on this earth I fucking knew it. I got up to call B and ex moved my purse and my Grande Starbucks Toffee Nut non fat Iced Coffee with milk two seats over and I came and sat back down and my parents showed up and IT WAS THE MOST AWKWARD INTERACTION EVER. I was, however, determined to make it as uncomfortable as possible for them, so I casually turned my body toward them and put my phone away and casually looked around and talked with T and waited for the ceremony to start because I was not there to have my night ruined; I was there to see my oldest graduate from the first of 12 more looong years of school and that’s what mattered the most to me. Also? I don’t want them to think they had any affect on me. My dad turned and said hi like he was talking to a coworker and I blankly stared at him until he looked away. Damn if I’m going to make anything NOT uncomfortable for the Three Musketeers.

 

 

The ceremony was probably the most endearing thing you have ever seen in your whole life, choreographed with little songs and a “Very Hungry Caterpillar”esqu theme: “The Very Hungry Kindergarteners”. “In September we learned…. In October we learned…..” And since that is one of my favorite children’s stories ever in the history of children’s literature, I was just tickled. My daughter looked so serious, though! Like she was concentrating very very hard on the songs and movements, which, of course, she nailed. Every last one. Adorable to the millionth and a half degree. Then came Pomp and Circumstance with graduation caps and little diplomas and HOLY SHIT SHE’LL BE GRADUATING HIGH SCHOOL IN 2024. I feel so old.

 

 

After the ceremony we all loved and hugged on her and her sister and of course my dad tried interjecting, “Oh my gosh, can you even believe this, A?” Blanks stare and “Uh huh” was the answer he got and I went right back to loving on my little big girl. I really am quite proud of her. With all she’s had to endure this school year, she’s made great accomplishments and she’s really quite smart.

 

 

Then came the fussing and the fighting and ex being a douche and me trying my hardest to stay quite because these poor girls do not need to know that on a regular basis I despise their father with almost every ounce of my being and because that makes me tired I don’t think about him as often as possible. And I’m not good at quiet, kittens. AS IF YOU DIDN’T KNOW. I don’t need to go into details about the rest because shit makes me weepy and I’m at work and I have to see him again today and I’m dreading it. I bit my tongue until I bled and did not say one damn word to him about my thinly veiled contempt for him and his sheer lack of parenting for the greater good of our children, nor one word to my parents and more importantly ignored anything my father said to me in his vain attempt at sparking some inane conversation with me.  It wasn’t so hard to not to talk with my mother as she has no interest in speaking a word to me either. Score. So I stood quietly after the ceremony was over and milled around the playground while the chicks played and enjoyed watching them while the Three Stooges hung out 10 feet away and undoubtedly talked shit with one another when out of earshot of the girls. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend” is the best way I can describe that relationship. I gave my hugs and kisses to my girls and told them to be good and made along my merry way.

 

 

When I talked with B, he said I did the right thing by keeping my mouth closed and allowing Faith to bask in the glory that was her graduation. But I keep wondering to myself, “where is the line?” When does keeping my mouth closed and keeping the peace turn into ignoring what is best for my children for the sake of not arguing? Will I know that line when I see it? I’d like to think so. I know I did the right thing last night by not letting him get to me (that he knew, anyway). B says that when the girls get older, they’ll understand, and they’ll respect me for it. They will look up to me and my ability to keep the peace and understand that I always took the high road. They’ll strive to act the way I do in times of turmoil, when it’s more respectable to NOT fight for the upper hand and just bask headily in the knowledge that I already have it.

 

 

But what if they don’t? What if they get older and I hear “Ugh, mom, you never cared!” or “You only saw us on the weekends. Why didn’t you fight for us?” or worse, what I heard my sister say to my dad: “Why didn’t you love me more?” Would I still be ok with “keeping the peace” then? When should I fight? What should I fight about? If the latter comes to fruition, will I still be able to sleep well at night knowing I took the high road when the situation called for it? NO I FUCKING WILL NOT. If it ever comes crashing down and my children don’t think that I loved them enough or fought for them enough I will straight kick someone’s teeth in.

 

 

So I struggle with that. I have been, since last night. I lost sleep over it. I’m perpetually sick to my stomach today and I wish I knew what to do. It’s going to be a long day, and I am steeling myself for another round because little big girl has an award assembly today and I will not ask if my parents are coming  but will prepare myself like they are regardless of whether they show.

 

 

Here’s the thing: the courts have ruled that I cannot stop ex from parenting, and therefore I cannot legally disallow him from letting the girls see my parents. That’s not a fight I can fight (or so I’m told) so this is what I hope: I hope my parents are good to my girls. I hope they give my girls better than they gave me. I hope they are all better people for having each other in their lives.

 

 

I know that’s not true, though. That won’t happen. There will be little broken hearts and little hurt feelings and little tears and little questions that I won’t be able to answer and I CANT STOP IT.

 

 

I feel like a failure as a parent.

Please don’t post that shit May 17, 2012

I hurt my wrist. I am a stupid asshole and hurt it months ago and am seriously too lazy to properly care for myself and refused to go to the doctor and instead moved: a dresser, a nightstand, another nightstand, two twin beds, two twin mattresses, a pinball machine (different post for a different time) and two toddler beds and THEIR respective mattresses when my wrist finally gave out. Holding a mattress that weighs approximately -4lbs. I decided it was time. Of course, my doctors office was closed and I shelled out an additional $20 to see the Urgent Care specialist who nodded and “uh-huh’ed” just enough to earn his paycheck and threw a gargantuan brace at me that Velcro’s in 14 different places and told me to wear it for three week. 3 WEEKS. I’m writing like an epileptic 6 year old. For real. And my fingertips go numb if I sit too long.

 

You know where I’m NOT going to post it, though? Facebook. You want to know why? BECAUSE NO ONE CARES. Seriously. Not one person gives a fuck that I hurt my wrist because i’m a lazy stupid moron. Not. One. And even if they did, I wouldn’t post it because the last thing I need people thinking about me is that I’m lazy, or stupid, or a moron. As though my salty attitude and foul language isn’t enough for them to dislike.  Pffft.

 

Facebook is not a fucking diary. What is difficult about this to understand, I do not know. I get the whole freedom of speech thing and if you want to post how you caught an STD by being a whore and vaugebooking for attention because your daddy didn’t love you enough, so be it. I tell people all the time that if they don’t like what I post, they can either: A. Not read it or B. Delete me if I’m so offensive, so I practice the same. Post what you like kittens. If I don’t want to see it, I’ll ignore, but damn if most of it doesn’t just make me seize before I roll my eyeballs into the back of my head while groaning at the idiocy .

 

This reminds me. I actually performed an experiment on a chick on my friends list. She was a sister of a friend of a cousin or something equally as inane and she friended me because she’d met me in line at the movie theater and because it was her duty as Gods child to help lead me home. Or something. Anyway, she was super Mormon and posted really stupid shit about how Angry Birds promotes anger when we should be forgiving each other and whatnot, and would also bitch about being broke but then would get really angry (ha) about how her husband would get called in on-call in a snowstorm. “How dare they risk his life!” she’d say. It’s a paycheck, kitten. You aren’t allowed to have it both ways.

 

Anyway, she complained about something most every hour of the day (really, who posts more than once a day? If your that FB friend, GTFO), usually about how her HOA were a bunch of douchwads, or she was broke, or that she got sunburned on her Disney Cruise (right? broke.). So frustrated and annoyed because Facebook is CRACK and I cannot dislodge my Phonedumb out of my hand, I decided this chick had got to go. I laced 2 consecutive status updates to the BRIM with as many profanity laden phrases and innuendos as one could possibly fit into a status (and subsequent comments) and POOF. That girl disappeared like a doughnut cart at a Weight Watchers meeting. It was magical.

 

I just don’t care about 99% of what 100% of people post on Facebook. I post when the mood strikes me and when it doesn’t provide too much information about how I am in my sweatpants by 8:30 every night and I hate cleaning between my toes and I have 4 books from the library sitting on my nightstand that I haven’t even touched and I’m addicted to DWTS and Cheezits and my current yeast infection. I keed about that last one, but I had a chick who posted that. Gross. I’m a fairly private person who appreciates her drama free life and quite frankly, its BORING in here and most everything I post is about stuff that people already know about me because if you don’t know shit about me? It’s for a reason and you WILL not find it on Facebook.

 

I would just like to run through today’s posts on my Facebook and list why I don’t give a FUCK about any of them:

 

A cartoon from the New Yorker: I don’t talk about politics with ANYONE. Political opinions are like assholes: everyone has one, no one thinks theirs stinks, everyone thinks everyone else’s DOES and all it helps to accomplish is nothing but crap. Seriously, when was the last time you saw a cool political debate that ended with everyone agreeing to disagree? That would be NEVER in the history of EVER.  Next.

 

A girl I went to HS with whose cousin is on her way to the hospital to have a baby: Has anyone met this woman? WHO CARES.

 

A girl I met through another friend posts pictures of their kids with PictureInstantHam (or whatever): Wow….. That’s the same picture you posted yesterday, only in black and white. Tell me more about how creative and artsy you are.

 

A friend who has been on a month long soul-search-spiritual trip through the nations greatest landmark parks and tourist attractions and is finding herself: You need help finding yourself? Ask any dude in your past, cause none of them have ever had a problem ”finding” you. Whore. I wish I could make this up, but this chick has fucked the likes of Hugh Hefner to get all expense paid trips to Vegas and Florida before for herself and her 50 closest bff’s and HAS NO PROBLEM ADMITTING IT. I think she’s been “found”. Plenty of times.

 

A friend who posts a video of her off-tune child in a local talent show: Don’t post that shit. It’s embarrassing, especially when you’ve got kids like Charlotte Church who were singing Soprano 1 in the church choir at age 2. Yours can’t hold onto a note if it was Velcro’ed to him.

 

A friend talking about how she’s going to tear it up at the gym: good for you. You’re also, like, what? 21? Fuck you and your skinny ass. When you’ve got two kids and child bearing hips that refuse to allow you to wear anything smaller than a size 8, I’ll be more supportive of your endeavor to “get fit”.

 

A friend who is chronically ill posting about how she can’t get up to vacuum her house without being in pain: Not. Joking. CHRONICALLY ill. She doesn’t work, is married with pets, and posts about 18 times a day about what she is doing at that exact moment. “Reading in bed, all snuggly.” “Kitty is keeping me company.” “GAH my nose is so stuffy.” She also posts about how her doctor has told her repeatedly to LAY THE FUCK DOWN until she gets better. I could be nice and say sappy shit like “Aw, sweetie, you know better. The doc told you to rest! Go lay down for a bit love!” What I actually told her was “Perhaps you’re so sick all the time because you don’t LAY THE FUCK DOWN. Seriously, girl, you.make.me.TIRED with how sick you always are because you just can’t “stop yourself”.” She deleted that post.

 

A friend who made the duck face: No. Hell fucking no. No friend of mine pulls this shit and thinks they’ll get away with it. She deleted it after I told her to stop scrunching her pretty face into ugly ass poses. No one wants to fuck someone with that face and since she cheats on her husband more regularly than she gets her period, I’m really doing her a favor. No thanks necessary, sweetheart.

 

A friend Vaguebooking: I will not ask who “isn’t who they seem.”  I will not ask “GAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! What?” “I also will not ask any derivative of “What’s going on?” “Are you ok?” “If you want to talk, I’m here.” Girls, STOP THIS RIGHT NOW. If you didn’t want anyone to know what going on, as you boldly claim, then you wouldn’t have posted something so question mark garnering in the first place. Stop being a bitch and just tell us what it’s about, because you know you will anyway and this shit is not cute.

 

*There is a caveat here: I posted something once that was vaguely vague in nature, but I was also straight up about it and said that I KNEW it was vague, that I wasn’t ready to share details, but that for once I was JOYOUS about something, and that in and of itself is monumental and Facebook worthy. A is actually HAPPY about something? Shout it from the rooftops and mark it on your calendar!!

 

A friend who went from “being in a relationship” to “single“: I only care about these ’relationship changes’ when it’s a friend who is A. not a whore and B. not a man-eater. It’s not really news if you’re eating through boyfriends faster than Pez in a fat kid’s hand.  The gut wrenching ones are those people that are your real life Rachel and Ross. Those people you just can’t imagine ever NOT being together. I cry for those people, I do. Life fucking sucks 108% of the goddamn time and I cry for failed relationships that shouldn’t have ever failed. Makes my heart hurt and I lose faith in the human race a little more each time it happens.

 

I intentionally left out the status updates I really do care about, like the ones from my cousin because she’s part of my blood line and we GET each other. No one understands the anger and angst that is our family attitude except US. I get her. She gets me. She’s rad as shit, and she can totally talk about PajamaJeans and UniBras and other made for TV shit she’s bought and real goddamn bad life choices and embarrassing the piss out of her children and damn if I don’t gobble up every last drop. Also? My sister, because we’ve been estranged for 15+ years through no fault of our own and I want to know everything about her. I want to know what she drinks, what side of the bed she sleeps on and what she takes in her coffee because if it weren’t for our parents, we’d already know this shit about each other. Other than that? No, I really don’t care about anything else on Facebook.

 

So I have helpfully compiled a list of things to never ever fucking post on Facebook. You’re welcome. Think about this before you post something:

 

Is it passive aggressive? Don’t be a bitch. Grow some balls and say loud and proud whatever it is you are trying to say. For example.

Don’t: “Don’t think I don’t know what you did. I won’t forget it EVER.

Do: “@Katie Smith, you are a lying whore and I know you slept with my husband. I will make your life hell. Doesn’t your boyfriend pay the rent on your condo?”

 

Do have a proper grasp of punctuation? This is SO easy, people. Punctuate your shit properly. Nothing is more annoying that having errant,,,,, commas,,,,,,,, ellipsis……. that……… last…….. for…….. days……….. and a plethora of questions marks and exclamation points to get across the fact that you are animatedly bewildered by something?!!!!?!?!?!??!?!!!!!!!??!?????????!??!????

Don’t: “Seriously????!?!?!??!?!??!? How long, does it take, to ring someone up……………………….”

Do: I hate shopping at Walmart.

 

Is it information than you’d be willing to share with the grocery store clerk? (TMI) No? Then what makes you so comfortable telling me and all your 349 friends about your raging case of vaginitis. I do not want to hear it.  No one wants to hear it. The grocery clerk doesn’t want to hear it. Do. Not. Post. It. It’s gross, and makes me want to dry heave. Classy, not trashy bitches.

Don’t: “Ugggghhhh!!! Finally set up an appointment with the doc tomorrow. I can’t stand the itching!!”

Do: Actually, unless your vagina falls off on the table while you’re spread eagle, don’t post anything. GAG.

 

Is it a direct quote from you, or someone you know? Ugh, quotes and song lyrics make me TIIIRED. If you can’t come up with an original thought, don’t post anything. Seriously. I had two girls who, judging by the shit they posted, acted like they were 12. They be having some shit poor day (I deduced that by judging their vaguebook statuses) and then post inspirational shit like “It’s always darkest before the dawn” or “When life gives you lemons…” Bitch please. Everyone knows it’s darkest before it goes pitch black and if life gave me lemons I’d melon punch someone and steal whatever life gave them instead. Get the fuck out of here with that shit.

Don’t: “”Always do what you are afraid to do.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

Do: “Yeah, that’s badass. But only half badass. More like just ass.”- Chick who posted on my blog.

 

Are you going to include a snappy word or phrase preceded by a #hash tag?  Don’t. Even. THINK about it. Twitter only, fuckers. TWITTER!!!!

Don’t: “Late for work because of some fucker on a crotch rocket. #reallytorquedoff.”

Do: “Late for work because of some fucker on a crotch rocket. Now I’m really torqued off.”

 

Are you bragging about how incredibly awesome and talented you are? What are you, a fucking circus monkey? All you’re accomplishing is to make the general population hate you because you are so goddamn full of yourself. Everything you do, you do WELL. Except being humble. Also? Chances are you will squeeze in a mild insult about yourself so people can pump your inflated ego up even more. STOP that.

Don’t: “Wheeeww! FINALLY done at the gym!! Finished my hour-long BOSU class, then ran 8 miles, did a BUNCH of lifting to tone my flabby ass up and now finishing it up with an extra-large Kale and Kiwi smoothie!!! Mmmm mmm!!!! ;);)

Do: “Just got done at the gym! Feeling great!! “

 

Have you already posted more than twice today?  Nothin drives me crazier faster than someone who thinks, even for a moment, that everyone on the internet everywhere cares what they are doing at that exact moment. If you MUST share every detail of your day, please condense it into one post and stop cluttering up my fucking news feed.

Don’t: “Feeding the cat, just made some coffee.” “Cleaning the house.” “Crap, the dog puked.” “Wheew, I’m tired! Nap time!” “Up from my nap, time to go grocery shopping.” “Dangit, forgot milk at the store.” “Eating at Roadhouse with the hubs!” “Home, not really tired. Think I’ll read a bit.” “Aweee, Missyboots is cuddling with me while I read.” “I guess it’s getting late, I should go to bed.” “Its 2am and I can’t sleep, gah.” “It’s 4am and I’m still wide awake.” “Didn’t sleep for shit, and now up at 7am. This is going to be a bad day.”

Do: “Yawwwwn, good morning!! Gonna make some coffee, take care of the animals, clean up around here, maybe take a nap if my little heart so desires later, then go grocery shopping and myabe eat out tonight. Have a good day everyone!”

 

Anything I missed? It took me so long to write this, I need to go catch up on everything I just missed in my newsfeed. Until next time, kittens…………………………………………………………..

I’m trying to be nice. May 16, 2012

 

So I’m trying a new “nicer” approach to life and its AWFUL. I despise being nice to anyone I don’t have to interact with on a daily or even semi-regularly basis. Except for B. I’m pretty surly with him because he already let me move in and really? He’s not going to kick me out for PMS’ing. Always. Every day. Ha.

 

I was talking to my manager the other day about how my job kinda pretty much sucks more than any other job in this company because how many times in the history of ever has someone called me or emailed me just to tell me that they love their home? NOT ONCE. Because I’m not in the Warranty/ Quality Assurance Department to field phone compliments all day. I’m here to deal with the people who: woke up late then singed their hair off with the curling iron because some sticky child with graham cracker clutches wouldn’t get dressed and they had to yell and yell and yell then they got to work late and found out the office skank bussrolled them and burger king put ketchup on their whopper at lunch when they specifically said NO ketchup and went to pick up their little crotchling and found they’d sat in the timeout corner all day for calling a classmate a “douche” then got home andOMGALIGHTBULBISBURNEDOUT.

 

I just don’t get happy calls. I get calls from people with inane complaints about really insignificant stuff because the nail pop was just the drywall problem that broke the camels back on that particular day. Also? I get phone calls like this: “Hi, this is so-and-so and I just want to say that we LOVE our home, but….”

 

Ok, wait. No, there was ONE time. I had to call and ask a homeowner to turn their sprinkler off so we could complete a repair to their front yard and they said, “We need to tell you that we LOVE our home. Really. It’s just so wonderful and you guys are so wonderful and we have nothing but good things to say about this whole experience.” I about fell off my chair.

 

“You just can’t take this stuff personally, A.” is what bosswoman told me. Let me to you something: When I answer the phone and barely get the greeting out of my mouth before an enraged homeowner loses their shit loudly in my ear because half the concrete in their garage is a different color from the rest (true story), that can only be construed as a personal attack. Perhaps I didn’t smile enough when I answered the phone. Was I TOO cheerful, maybe? All I know is when someone wants to get an ugly ass attitude with me about NOTHING, that is exactly what I give them. NOTHING. I’ve had nicer people call to tell me that they think their house is falling off an embankment. If those people can be nice, so can the rest of the goddamn world.

 

In all seriousness, I really only get calls from people when something is wrong. That’s my job. So when my boss suggested I “kill those people with kindness”, I scoffed. “My contempt for people like that is so thinly veiled that I can’t even pretend to be nice! People know I’m shooting death daggers out of my eyes at the computer screen when I’m trying to type up some sappy dappy response to “one tile in my basement bathroom is higher than the rest.” It ends up sounding something like:

 

“Hi! Thanks for your email. I am SO sorry that you are being so horribly inconvenienced by the offending tile! It must make it impossible to set anything on the countertop. I apologize for any aggravation or lost sleep this has caused you! (It’s really too bad that you didn’t notice it when you closed 8 months ago!) Unfortunately that tile is considered to be well within “tolerance” of the rest and I will absolutely NOT dispatch a team of tilers to rip out your entire countertop for one tile! 

 

If you have any other questions, please don’t hesitate to ask!”

 

I could totally send that to someone. Only once though.  So bosswoman (who is rad as shit) told me that she would support me in my endeavor to be nicer (And by “support” I mean “didn’t give me a choice”) and would gently tap me on the shoulder  (and by “tap” I mean write me up)(not really) when she can tell I’m bunching my ruffled tail feathers into a noose and remind me to kindly kill or whatever. People around here are really into being nice to others. That is a novel idea for me. OBVIOUSLY.

 

Little did I know that my first opportunity would come just hours later when I received a scathing email from a problem homeowner that was WRITTEN IN ”YELL” FONT ABOUT HOW HIS ROCKS ARE GETTING DIRTY BECAUSE OF THE HOUSE BEING BUILT NEXT DOOR. I wish I could make this shit up. This is the same homeowner who we had to have a come-to-jesus talk with before he even bought the house because he is that much of a piece of work. Since then, his light bulbs burn out too quick. His light fixture is 1/16 of an inch crooked. His ceiling fan wobbles too much. His hardwood floor is unevenly dented. The grain of the wood on his deck is backwards. Ugh. It’s composite decking. THERE. IS. NO. GRAIN.

 

I ended up emailing him back fuck you: shut the fuck up: who the fuck do you think you are: do not fucking talk to me like that: fuck you and your crooked fucking lights: do not fucking yell at me: fuckingfucker and your fuck fucking fuckers “Thank you so much for your email! I apologize for any frustration this has caused you! I will forward your message to the appropriate parties! If you have any other questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to email me! Thank you!”

 

As my blood pressure dropped back to that of a runner on a treadmill doing 8.2mph on a 10 incline, I realized if I could send a nice email to that guy, I could send one to anyone! I guess it worked too, because he never emailed me back.

 

Although, I have to admit that I don’t give a SHIT about his rocks and I never forwarded that email to ANYONE.

 

Maybe I still have some work to do.

Hey guuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurl, I found a cure for acne. May 15, 2012

 

“Hey girl!!!!!!! I haven’t talked to you in forever! How have you been?! We need to get together sometime!”

 

Tell me why I fall for this shit. I become this quivering puddle of goo at the thought of someone actually giving a rats ass. “Hey, I’m doing well, thank you for asking! We should totally get together for dinner or drinks! I miss seeing you and hanging out with you! I’m available Monday through Thursday night, anytime after 5!” And I’m thinking, “gosh! That unprompted text was nice!”

 

“Great! We’ll plan something! Btw, could you……”

 

Chick got her answer and hasn’t texted me since. That was two months ago. People fucking suck.

 

I don’t make an effort anymore because it’s not worth it. When I extend the hand, people are too busy, they’re too tired, they’re too broke, they’re too bloated, they’re too hot, they have to walk their dog, they have to wash their hair, they already have plans, they have to pay their utility bill, they have to practice juggling, they have to mow their lawn. “But you live in an apartment?” “Right………………………………………………………. my mother’s lawn.” Le sigh. I figure if they want to see me, they’ll make the time and so far no has wanted to see me.

 

Bet your sweet ass I’ll get a phone call or text when someone suddenly becomes single, though. Not that I speak from experience, pshaw. “omgz heeeeey gurl!!! happy hour at copperhead tonight! squeeee!” “What about ______?” “Oh, yeah, I’ll tell you about that tonight. We broke up.” Well I’m glad I was just as important to you two days ago as I am today! Enjoy your night out! Seriously, if I’m not good enough while you’re WITH someone then don’t worry about me after you’re NOT with someone. I’ll be fine left to my own devices, thankyouverymuch. Also? When they need something. Why even try to hide it like you really care when you’re really contacting me so I can help you with your other best friend’s problem? STOP THIS. I would be less salty about helping if you just said, “Hey. I know I ignore you and I never talk to you or hang out, but I was wondering if you could help me.” I will give you MAD credit for admitting you’re a shitty person. Is it really that hard to make your intentions known up front?

 

I’ve come to accept it and expect it which I think is sad in it’s own right, but at least I don’t get totally butthurt anymore. If someone texts me, I basically answer, “Hi! What do you want?” just to cut to the chase. And to the chase we cut every time.

 

ON A MORE POSITIVE NOTE: I found the cure for acne. Not even joking. I have struggled with acne for approximately…. 3 1/2 years, and it SUCKS. You know that bitch in high school who you just hated because she came to school everyday looking like she was ready for a pageant? Perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect complexion, radiant, glowing, looking like she dipped her face in a barrel of Mac because she was wearing SO much fucking makeup. So minus the hair and the airbrushed makeup, that was me. Sweet mother Mary in a mojito, I had the most perfect skin you’ve ever seen. My dad would tell me almost every morning that I was wearing too much makeup, and I had to remind him that I didn’t even own foundation. Blush and mascara, chickadees. Be jealous. No acne, no dark spots, no wrinkles, no under eye circles. Even after I had kids, boom! Gorgeous. Then I started drinking, staying out too late, hanging with horrible people and causing myself a whole lot of unnecessary drama. At age 23, it started. One here, one there, nothing unmanageable. Then I noticed that it happened only around my chin. Hm. Then there were two at a time, then three, and then my whole chin was nothing but one big angry red pimple. Fucking gross. Let me tell you guys now: I HAVE TRIED EVERYTHING. I stay conscious of where my greasy little phalanges are all day and make sure I’m not resting them ON MY FACE (which happens more often than you think if you’re not aware of it). I’ve tried Proactive (left me with some pretty horrible acne marks and a FIFTY DOLLAR BOTTLE of Clinique Dark Spot Corrector), Acne Free (a joke), Acne Free Sensitive (I can’t believe they can even legally market that stuff as an “acne product”), Neutrogena Blemish Corrector (nothing), Mary Kay Acne Blemish Control Gel (more nothing), Noxema Acne scrub (turned my face from a bright red pimple into a hot flaky mess), Clean and Clear Acne Cleanser, Moisturizer and Spot corrector (more acne than before!). Here’s the thing about acne moisturizers: People seem to believe that when you have greasy acne skin you should moisturize less. Why do people think this? STOP THIS RIGHT NOW. The less you moisturize, the more your oil glands try to compensate for your nasty, dry, tight-ass skin and they will begin to OVERproduce oil. Logic would dictate that more oil= more acne. You need to give your skin a reason to stop producing some much pore clogging gunk! You hear me? MOISTURIZE YOUR FACE! So my mission became “Find an acne cleanser that works and find a moisturizer that is oil free, hypoallergenic, and non-comedogenic”.  In English? Something that won’t clog my now squeaky clean pores.

 

I still haven’t found a product that works worth a damn. I have over $600 worth of cleansers and moisturizers in my bathroom ALONE. Not including the DARK SPOT CORRECTORS, wrinkle creams, scrubs, mircoderm products, toners, masks, and sunscreens to keep my face beautifully cancer free. I did realize, however, that I had a picking problem that was exacerbated by my short, greasy, claw-like, germ-riddled nails. I solved that problem and killed the picking habit by spending +$60 a month on acrylic nails. I despise acrylics *sigh* but it’s hard to pick at my face with 2″ worth of fake nails on your hands. I also noticed that around this time, I started cutting shitty people out of my life. So I still drink, and I still stay up too late and I still eat horribly most of the time, but oh so slowly, one by one, the pimples and the friends disappeared until one day, there were none. VOILA! Acne. Free. Skin.

 

I wish I could market this: They say stress can lead to less sleep (less time for your skin to heal and regenerate) stress eating (more fatty and sugary foods) or stress non-eating (no good vitamin or nutrient intake) in addition to less exercise, less enjoying life and more “hands on your face” time, which all leads to DING! More acne. So really, all I had to do was eliminate crappy people and their drama that really had nothing to do with me and they dragged me into anyway? And all my acne would go away?? Wha?! How come no one told me “Yeah, forget that sorry bitch you were SUPPOSED to have dinner with before she cancelled to hang out with her boyfriend and that twat that started rumors about you having STDs and the cunt who ALWAYS makes you feel like a third wheel and NEVER makes you priority and your face will clear right up!”?? DUMBASS WHORES WOULD HAVE BEEN DROPPED. If anyone asked, I would have no problem telling people “Yeah, since I stopped hanging out with you my face cleared up. Thanks for that.” So there you have it. I keep telling you people over and over again to drop the people who don’t care about you. Give up the ones who are taking a toll on your mental and physical and emotional well being. Leave behind the peeps that could care less if you are in their lives because of they don’t care, why don’t you care?

 

Think about this: you’ll have gorgeous skin to taunt them with in the end. How great does it feel to walk past a raggedy bitch you used to know in the mall who has two kids yanking at her coattails, ponytail a greasy mess and a day old sweatshirt on looking like she hasn’t slept in a week, knowing that your skin is glowing and FLAWLESSSSSSS all because she is no longer in your life. That feels better than the best feeling ever. Enjoy, kittens.

Et tu, eBay? May 10, 2012

I went to the dentist yesterday for the first time in 9 years (9 years! I still lived at home the last time I had my jaw jacked uncomfortably wide open!). The dentist said I was a “dental phenomenon”; no bone loss, no disease and no gum recession except where I had a lip ring a few years back. SCORE! Only two minor cavities that needed to be filled. Oh boo. I went home not feeling the right side of my face for the better half of the night. Which was great because I bbq’ed some bomb-ass burgers and since I’ve only been able to swallow a half a poppyseed muffin, 8 ibuprofen and a non fat no whip Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino today, I realize I would have been pissed if I had been able to feel my tongue last night. Seriously, omfg. White hot searing pain when I chew,  like someone stabbed my gumline with a rusty, serated knife and twisted. I about keeled over where I sat this morning when I took my first bite of my deliciously moist grocery store muffin.

 

I can’t eat (I’m hungry), I can barely swallow anything (I’m drooling) and I had no idea gums could even bruise (I’m hurting). Le sigh. And I’m PMSing (I’m grouchy). And I got busrolled at work for NO GOOD REASON (I’m grouchier). So I can deal with stupid, ignorant, idiotic, and common senselessness far LESS than I normally can’t today.

 

A few months ago I went to Charlotte Russe because despite the sheer lack of anything remotly related to customer service they have the cuuuuuuuuutest heels (squeeeeeeeeee!!) and as I walked passed the Panties on Parade table I realized I was in need of some new ones and at 5 for $12? I grabbed, like, 20 pairs. No joke. I get them all home and realize that only 15 where in my size. Whoops. Being perpetually lazy, I didn’t not feel it neccessary to schlep my ass back to the store immedietly to exchange 5 mis-sized panties. I go back a week later and I got met with a blank stare and “Sorry. We can’t return panties. It’s a health…. uh…. thing.” They can CLEARLY see I’m not fitting my ass (literally) into an XS and they can CLEARLY see that the tags are on, they’ve never been tried on, and in fact? They’ve been in the bag in my trunk so long that have wrinkles! How does one even wrinkle panties? By not wearing them, that’s how.  Already annoyed with some online issues I was havng with the store (they charged me shipping when they shouldn’t have), I made it very loud and clear that it would behoove them to explain that the return policy for ONE ITEM IN THE STORE is different that every OTHER ITEM IN THE STORE when someone is buying, oh i don’t know, 20 OF THOSE ITEMS. Fuck man. People are dumb.

 

So I suck it up and B says, “Sell them on eBay!”. Ring a ding! We have a winner! I have an excellent eBay account. Good feedback, 100% feedback score. My buyers love me. So 2 months later, I get around to listing them. I sell all the like-sizes together, starting at $.99 with $1 shipping. Now that’s a fucking deal!

 

So this chick buys on of the listings and her grand total comes to (drum roll please…..) $3.36. Yes, three whole dollars and some pocket change. She never pays. Two days after the listing, I sent and invoice. 5 days after the listing, I emailed her. 7 days after the listing, I opened a “non-payment” case with Paypal. $3.36, people. Really? I could dig that out of my sofa right now.

 

Let me be clear: IF YOU CANNOT PAY $3.36 FOR PANTIES ON EBAY, YOU DO NOT NEED TO BE BUYING PANTIES ON EBAY. Fuck. Me. Go commando and save your money for all I care, because you obviously to learn how to manage your money better if you can’t even borrow $3.36.

 

Two days later, Ms. College informed me that it was like, omg, finals week! Do I care? NO I DO NOT. Pay up bitch. So she pays. I seriously contemplated waiting a week and a half to ship her package to see how she would react, but my feedback rating is one of the few things in my life I won’t fuck with, second only to the IRS and my morning coffee. I ship it out the next day, May 4th, via USPS Parcel Post, with an estimated delivery date of May 15th because not only is postage getting more expensive but apprently the trucks are getting slower too. So tell me why I wake up the morning of the 7th to find that Ms. Broke-ass College reversed the funds? Hmmmm? My first thought was that she really was legit broke and overdrafted her account. I laughed, and then I thought “Shit. I already mailed those out to her.” Then I though, “3.36? WTFever. She can have them if she’s so broke. Consider it a gift, kitten!”

 

Then Paypal emailed me this morning and decided they wanted the tracking information for the panties because Ms. I’m-fucking-with-your-feedback-rating-broke-ass-college-chick hasn’t received her package yet. I swear to god, that shit probably hasn’t even left my CITY yet, let alone made it to her house by now!

 

I paced my fucking bathroom so hard this morning i’m pretty sure I left wear marks in the tile, I was so mad. I want to throttle people like this. You hear me talk ad nauseum about my inability to function around socially inept borderline retards that consider themselves societys finest because THESE ARE THE PEOPLE I DEAL WITH. After much deliberation, I sent her this:

“Amanda,

 

1. Per the listing you purchased, I had 5 business days to ship your item from the date of payment (5/3/12), which means you initiated a “funds reversal” a full two business days before I was even required to ship your product.

 

2. Since I did not wait a week and a half to ship your product like you waited to pay me, I shipped the product the evening of 5/4/12. Per USPS and the delievery service selected (Parcel Post), the post office feels you may not even recieve the product for 2-8 business days, which means you initiated a “funds reversal” a full 7 business days before you should have even potentialy recieve the product (5/15/12)

 

You mentioned finals weeks in your last message, so I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you are a poor college student who simply could not afford $3 and overdrafted your account, because I refuse to believe that you would have intentionally initiated this funds reversal. (Although, I also believe if you cannot afford to spend $3, you shouldn’t be buying panties on eBay).

 

However, if you did willingly initate this, here is my offer: If you would like your $3 back, I will refund you. That amount of money is not even worth the time it took me to write this email. When you recieve the panties, consider them my gift to you. Let me know if this is what you want and I will happily give you back your pocket change by EOB today.”

 

Grrrrr……

“you should NOT let us wear sandles!” May 9, 2012

I would just like to take a moment out of my hectic busy Monday morning to let you all know that I am the worlds greatest parent. Really. I care about my children’s education and their teeth and their health and their sensitive little feelers.

 

Not really. I totally do care about all that but I yell and cuss and shit too so i’m not the greatest parent ever but what I would LIKE to drive home in the rant is that I am a FAR better parent than their father. FAR FUCKING BETTER.

 

I don’t like to bash on my ex husband much because I think he tries to be a decent human being (read: he can cry and lie like a whiny bitch to a judge and convince them that he loves our children more than anything in the world and somehow the judge finds this sack of shit to be something resembling a decent parent.) B thinks that I offer him far too much courtesy and respect and all that nice, normal, well-adjusted, ’being a decent human being’ shit. I just can’t really bring myself to be uber shitty to his face. I can totally muster it if the time calls for it, but when we’re on the phone and I know he’s lying, B says “Why don’t you call him out??!” And to that I say: Because it won’t matter. If I know he’s lying and I let him know that I know, he’ll make up more bullshit excuses and I’ll never get the truth out of him anyway. If he was going to do right by me, he’d already be doing it. Besides, all the battling I do with him already makes me TIRED. Also? I don’t have a choice but to believe that he’s doing the best he can because if I think about it for too long I get sick to my stomach with all the things that my girls are missing in life that I can provide for them, like a stable home, a non-dysfunctional adult relationship to look up to and a backyard.

 

When we divorced, I thought about what would be best for my children. The situation was tough when he kicked me out of the house, and I didn’t have a job or a car or a home or a computer or a closet or a BANK ACCOUNT and I knew that life was too unstable for me to adequately care for my girls. I relinquished weekday care to him and took them on the weekends; backwards from what most divorced families look like. I wanted this time of transition to be the least stressful possible on them as they are sensitive little creatures and thought that being surrounded by the familiar walls I was no longer living in and furniture and toys that they were used to would make things easier. It broke my cold heart to hear that when they went to bed at night, he had to make up some reason as to why I wasn’t there to tuck them in. Lord only knows what he told them, but again, if I think about it too long, I get sick.

 

I thought I was doing right by my children and I was honestly thinking about them first and foremost. BUT. If I knew then what I know now, I would have lived in my car with them if I had too, because getting this shit changed in the court system is next to impossible. I’ve documented every single thing he’s done that, combined together, could make a great case against him as an unfit parent and yet it’s still not enough. I’ve called in 6 people living in a 400 sq. foot one bedroom apartment with couch cushions acting as makeshift mattresses for the kids, dirty socks and holey shoes to the Department of Human Services and they STILL consider those people to be fit parents. Color my ass shocked. I’d have not one good thing to say about my childhood if that’s how I grew up. NOT ONE. Pfft. So I realize that some catastrophe would have to befall him or my children before the courts will allow any changes to our parenting plan. Why? Because of the aforementioned and because he’s veeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrryyyyyy charming and personable if you don’t know him better. He can convince anyone he wants that the sun and moon together shine out of his ass, including the District 8 judge in charge of our case. Anyway, since I DO know him better, my interactions with him involve a lot of eye rolling and “yeah, uh huh, sure”‘s. Because nothing that ever comes out of his mouth is the truth.

 

Take for instance last summer when he finally got health care for the girls. He said he’d take them in for their first ever dental checkups (they were 3 and 5). I told him that since I was off on the weekends with them that he could pass along their healthcare information and I would take them in, since I had more free time with them, you know? Trying to be nice and make his life easier. Pshaw. 9 months later, NOTHING. So I take them in and pay for it out of my own pocket, knowing full well that I’ll never be reimbursed half the cost like our divorce decree specifies I should be, and quite frankly, ages 4 and 6 by this time? It’s borderline negligent not to have their teeth cared for, even for me.

 

This is the EXACT conversation I had with B mere minutes before walking up to his front door:

 

Me: “I bet you $10 that he either has “already taken them in” for their first ever dental appointments, OR he was planning on making an appointment for them next week.”

 

B: “Hahaha, right? Because he’s ALWAYS the better parent, isn’t he? He’s got this shit HANDLED!”

 

So I walk up to the door and this is the EXACT conversation we had:

 

Him: “Ugh. I took them in last summer. I told you I would.”

 

Me: “Well, they said they’d never been to the dentist before. I asked.”

 

“They just don’t remember.”

 

“Are you kidding me? They remember living with grandma 4 years ago, but they don’t remember someone jacking their jaw uncomfortably wide open 9 months ago? Yeah, uh huh, sure.”

 

“I did it. I told you I did it.  I just forgot to tell you.”

 

I COULD NOT MAKE THIS SHIT UP.

 

Every time I do something for the girls that would deem me, oh i don’t know,  A PARENT, he one-ups me. Every. Single. Time. He either has already done it, is currently doing it, or was going to do it “next week”. On the plus side? The girls are going to have it good. Most divorced people I know have to threaten castration to get their ex husbands to do anything for their children. I, on the other hand, have successfully ensured that everything I do for the girls will be done again because we’re each trying to be a better parent than the other. It’s great.

 

(This is a funny one that actually made me laugh pretty hard.) So my youngest, who is four, told me that daddy lets her drink the “soda in the green bottle”. I pulled a 2 liter of Mountain Dew out of the cupboard and she said “Yeah!! That’s it! That’s the one daddy lets us drink!” (Daddy has a long running caffeine addiction, so I knew exactly what she was talking about). Then she tells me that she eats the “sqaure things with fruit inside” for breakfast. I pull up a picture of pop-tarts on my phone and she once again loudly proclaims, “Yeah! That’s it! That’s what daddy lets us eat for breakfast!!” SMH. So I put a bug in her ear that those things were very VERY bad for her and that she needs to not eat them, and that she needs to ask for water or cereal or toast instead. Surprise surprise, I have asked her consistently for weeks now, and according to her, she’s had not one Pop-Tart nor one sip of Mountain Dew since that convo. Interesting! (I took it one small step further and now she asks for juice that is only “100% juice, please!” Hhahahahaha, I love that girl!) 

 

 The next week? She comes over wearing sandals with socks on. 1. Frigging yuck! No child of mine will have THAT kind of fashion sense. Puh-lease! I’d have her tottering on stilettos by now if she could even walk flat-footed without falling over. 2. I look outside and SURE ENOUGH! It is 50 degrees with ice on the ground from the last snow fall. Are you kidding me? I couldn’t even stop talking about it. I told everyone I knew that he let her wear sandals with ice on the ground and what a dipshit he is.

 

I dropped her off at the end of that weekend and he no sooner opens the door and she says “DADDY! You should NOT let us wear sandals when it’s cold outside!!”

 

He grinned that half assed ”I-really-fucking-hate-you” grin at me, and said, “Well, sweetie, it wasn’t cold outside when I dropped you off with mommy.”

 

The time called loud and clear for me to get shitty. I said “Are you kidding me? You see that ice on the parking lot? That’s from a week ago! What do you mean it wasn’t cold outside?!”

 

SLAM!!!

 

I thought his front door was going to come off its hinge, he slammed it in my face so hard. It was so unprompted by little T, too, which made it even funnier because I didn’t expect that it would be the first thing out of her mouth when she got there! And if you couldn’t guess, they’ve been very appropriately dressed ever since. Score 1,654,597 for THIS momma!

 

This is just the tip of the bad parenting iceberg. The reasoning behind todays rant is due, in large part, to my daughters kindergarten teacher calling me to say “Hi! F isn’t in school today and her permission slip for her field trip tomorrow isn’t turned in yet and I’m afraid if I don’t get it today, it will be too late and she won’t be able to attend……” I totally ignored the whole field-trip-my-daughter-can’t-attend part and asked, “She’s not THERE today? Why?” Of course she didn’t know, she just got a note from the office saying someone had called her in, yada yada yada. So smoke formed outta my ears a little and I casually texted him and said “You’d better let me know you and the girls are alive or I’ll send a search and rescue to find out why our 6 years old isn’t in school today.” “Oh and btw F needs to turn in her P-Slip.”

 

When it comes to skipping school, I.Do.Not.Play. This child is in KINDERGARTEN. It’s daycare with standardized testing. If someone told me I had to get out of bed in the morning to go color on some construction paper and trace a few letters and recite my ABC’s and 123′s, I couldn’t get outta bed quick enough! But we we’re doing here is setting a precedent that my dear F doesn’t have to go to school when she doesn’t feel like it. The last time she missed school he said “F just didn’t feel like getting out of bed this morning :p”. Are you. Fucking. Kidding me. You must be joking, right? Shes six. SHE GET OUT OF BED WHEN YOU TELL HER TO. That’s why you are a PARENT. How am I paying you $471.78 a month in child support when you can’t even walk her 2 feet down the street to school? She can see her classroom from her bedroom window!!!! Also? He doesn’t have a job. So please tell me what he has better to do at 8am than take our children to school?

 

Speaking of not having a job, tell me why a WHITE MAN in a county run by WHITE MEN that was built by WHITE MEN that provides the best and the brightest opportunities to WHITE MEN is such a pathetic loser. If you cannot find it reasonable and achievable to make something of yourself in THIS country? Then you are exactly where you deserve to be. If Rosa Parks can start a movement that helped facilitate one of the most controversial civil rights movement in U.S. history? Then you can get a job. This woman was in  country where no one wanted her, no one thought highly of her, no one cared what she had to say and would give her even less than a moment of their time and she’s been deemed one of the most influential people in American history. What is YOUR excuse?

 

This post is making me tired. I despise writing about this. It’s cathartic, but it wears me out thinking about him parenting our children. Go make a movement or something! Have a great, kittens.

ohmygosh my toe May 3, 2012

Seriously? I will never get another pedicure again. I’m pretty sure my big toe will either fall off or I will die from some contracted disease. horrific.

 

I was having quite the craptastic day when my dumbass thought: “Let’s go get us a pedicure, piggies!!” and stopped short walking out of the house when I thought about how I really had no intention of making my day worse by coming home with some flesh-eating bacteria that was left to simmer in a half-assedly cleaned foot soaker tub. So instead I decided on just getting a polish change, because I can scrub my own feet. What I cant do? Paint my toes because Number one: I am far to lazy to bend over and paint my own toenails. Number two: I have a bad back which doesn’t allow me to contort my body 17 different ways of crazy to reach my toes. Number three: if I somehow manage to splatter some polish on my toes, it ends up looking like a Jackson Pollock cause it makes me SO tired waiting for polish to dry. Fuck that. And number four: did I mention I am just too lazy?

 

I should have been worried when I walked in and there was a sign on the door that said “24 hour service! Call _________!” I was having a bad day and I wasn’t there for a happy ending so I ignored the obviously ominous sign. Mistake # 1. In retrospect, I probably should have asked for one, since that pedicure was EXPENSIVE. And she lopped my toe off. Almost.

 

There was only one woman working and she already had someone sitting in her chair, and as I turned around to leave, she said something that can only be interpreted as “Pick a color”. It really sounded more like “Pi-ah-ko-ha”. I could have been wrong. I sat and waited for a few when she grabbed my arm with her bony hand and hurled me into Pedi Chair #3 with all the might her 65lb frame could muster. Everything was fine until she pulled out a dremel. Wait….what? A dremel? For my toes? Surely they’re gnarled pieces of wintery meat right now, but I really don’t think thats  necessary. That’s when she shaved the cuticle of my right big toe off. Off. O.F.F. All the way off. You know that thing that’s supposed to protect your nail bed from infection? OFF! Not on purpose, I don’t think, but who could tell? She acted like painting my toes was a timed marathon: it doesn’t matter how you finish, but how FAST you finish.

 

Anyway, OFF. Off. Cuticle: gone. Infection protection: no more. And with a probably rusty non sanitized piece of sharp metal. Of all the things. And me without a current tetanus shot. Fuck. I sat there with my eyes closed because it STUUUUUUUUUUUUUNG and I was trying not to kick her in her tiny fucking face she oh MY FUCKING GOD OW OW OW WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST PUT ON MY TOE??!?!?  She dropped this stop-bleed-goo-from-hell on my toe and I was seriously waiting for my toe to burst into flames. That. Shit. Hurt. So much. SO fucking much. Then, before it was even dry, she painted o.v.e.r. i.t. My blood is now in that nail polish! How sick is that. And that got me thinking: who else’s blood is in that bottle? Or in any of the bottles? Or all the bottles??! I came in thinking that I didn’t want my whole foot to fall off after contracting some bone eating flesh rotting virus, but instead I guess I’ll just lose a toe. Or my life. Not only is it an open wound, it’s an open wound on a an area that is suppoed to have natural protection but doesnt anymore because that is exactly whats wounded (!!!), done with a dirty metal instrument and a poisonious and probably HIV laced toxin laid directly on top of it. Sweet mother mary in a mojito, I am going to die.

 

For anyone who has no idea what my shoe closet looks like: every single pair of shoes I own requires 5 toes and two feet. And probably a shorter woman, cause every pair shoots me well past 6 feet tall. Whatever. I mean, if I was going to have to give them all up, at least with a missing foot I could make up some amazing story about how a surfing accident went wrong, or I was pinned under a car while trying to save a child, or I James Bond-ed myself out a window when a terrorist plot went horribly awry and a bomb exploded next to me and a unicorn came to my resuce and flew me to the nearest hospital but not fast enough to save my foot, but no. There is not a story you can come up with that sounds amazing or extravagant when you only lose a toe. And not to mention, the most important toe! Not only will I not be able to wear heels again, but I’ll be stumbling around looking perpetually drunk while missing the stabilizer bar equivalent of toes.

 

I just broke a glass in my hand. Fuck me. I’m going back to bed before I lose any more extremities. On a more positive note, I’m going to the doctor tonight to have myself texted for STDs and viruses and bacteria and blood born pathogens and mental illnesses that cause paranoia of losing phalangies. Fucking yuck. Wish me luck.